Fight, Right?
by usernamealwaystaken
Summary: Old habits die hard. In the past, Switzerland has attended various fight clubs to get some money for food. Now, after a decades long hiatus, he decides to return to the club to reclaim his title as Champion, all while preventing anyone from his private life seeing him. One-shot


A loud slam of the door signaled the end of another tiring day. The pervasive noise did nothing for the blond man's headache. He groaned loudly. Being the personification of a nation is hard, yes. But seeing as Switzerland wasn't one of those nations constantly bickering and fighting, he thought it would be easier. Instead he had to spend the vast majority of his day in a stuffy meeting room firing warning shots at any nation who dared cross his path with any bullshit.

Despite his awful day, the Swiss man had reason to smile. He dropped his gun, now devoid of bullets, and ran up the long winding staircase up to his room in his mountaintop estate. He dragged his palm up the railing and recalled a time when he was unable to afford such luxuries. Many years back, he could barely afford to feed himself. Despite this, he had adopted Liechtenstein, a neighboring country in need, as his sister. On the days when money was tight and not even extreme couponing could help him out, he took to the streets to find ways of getting money. It became a habit, and he still does it to this day.

He walked down the hall, gave a quick greeting to Liechtenstein, and went straight to his room, gingerly locking the door. Switzerland opened up a hidden dresser drawer to reveal some fighting equipment and a costume. Costumes were lame, yes, but he was going to a fight club for God's sakes. He couldn't allow anyone to figure out his secret or his reputation would be jeopardized. No one need to know that the "peace-loving" Switzerland took part in an illegal fighting ring. The costume came with a hair tie, colored contacts, bandages, a beat-up pair of pants, and some foundation that he borrowed for Liechtenstein to cover up the scar on his shoulder. He changed his clothes, shouted a quick "I'm going out" and headed off into the night.

Naturally, he knew his country like the back of his hand. He walked through every winding road and every dark alleyway that led him to a shady little shack. He knocked on the dilapidated door in an irregular rhythm until a burly man cracked the door open.

"Whaddya what?" he snorted.

Switzerland looked at him unblinking and said "Wenn der Alpen Firn sich rötet, Betet, freie Schweizer, betet".

With that, the man simply stepped aside and opened the door wider. As Switzerland walked in, the man examined him. He let out a guffaw either at his physique or his weird getup. Switzerland, however, paid him no mind. He hadn't hit up a fight club in a few decades, so it was natural that these thugs didn't know of the power he possessed. Of course, it was smart to use this to his advantage. Switzerland looked around at the shack.

"So, where's the ring?" he asked dumbly. Of course he knew it was right beneath his feet, through a trap door.

The man simply laughed again and spoke in a heavily accented voice. "Listen up sprout, unless you have a death wish, I suggest ya git outta here. A twig like you'll just snap in two before the first punch hits ya."

"I came here to win. Now, where is the ring?" he said, adding a quiver in his voice.

In response, the man just shoved him aside and lifted the trap door. He gave him on last glance before he led him down further. The man put a hand in his pocket and filed through the stacks of francs with a crooked and toothy grin. He separated it into to two stacks in each of his hands. Upon looking back at Switzerland, he made the stack in his right land bigger and pocket the one in his left.

"The name's Bastia. Not like yer gonna remember it. Not after ya git yer lights knocked out."

Switzerland merely replied, "My name is Vash", and kept walking. He hadn't used that alias before, since he figured that, with his reputation, these guys might know him through his previous one, Basch.

Suddenly, Switzerland and Bastia were greeted by the familiar roar of the crowd and musty smell of sweaty, overly muscles guys. Switzerland forgot just how revolting the ring could be. Spit lined the floor and rancorous men shouted profanities at each other. Walking through the crowd in an attempt to get to the ring made Switzerland remember why it took him so long to return. It was an absolute sausage fest, but as long as he got his pay, he had no complaints.

Switzerland watched from the ring as Bastia placed his bet in a large bowl. Other rowdy members of the crowd chipped in too. Switzerland watched with pleasure as he saw the money pile up against him. One he got an eyeful, he went to his corner and used the bandages to wrap up his hands. He took up an awkward stance and shifted his expression to one of nervousness. Spotting this, the crowd added in more money. Once the bets were placed, Bastia held a mic up to his hideously scarred lips.

"Are ya ready fer fight club?!" he yelled. The crowd responded with a loud cheer.

"I said, ARE YA READY FER FIGHT CLUB?!" The response from the crowd was deafening.

"In this corner," he yelled, gesturing to the corner opposite of Switzerland, "is the beast, the slayer, the Champ! Weighing in at 350 pounds, give it up for _Björn!"_

_Björn was a huge, hairy man, but Switzerland wasn't scared in the slightest, though he outwardly looked that way. His quick healing ability gave him an unfair advantage. Plus, he was stronger than he looked. Bastia obnoxiously continued,_

_"and in this corner is Vash or something;, whatever. NOW LET'S GIT ON WITH THE MATCH!"_

_Björn wasted no time charging at Switzerland. He swung a massive fist and just narrowly missed. Switzerland decided to give the crowd a show and played the dodging game with him for a while. Björn eventually got sloppy due to anger. It was then he decided that underhanded tactics would do the trick. He reached out to the crowd and Bastia threw him a metal chair. With one precise swing, Switzerland was knocked to the ground. Björn quickly took to beating him repeatedly with the chair until he elicited a pained groan from the fallen nation. Satisfied, he threw the chair aside and positioned a large fist right over his head. Right before the fist made contact, Switzerland grabbed it and looked at him with a bored expression._

_"Have you had your fun?" he didn't wait for a reply. "Good."_

_He diverted the fist away from him, sending its owner toppling to the floor. He followed up with a swift punch to the side of his head. Björn jumped up and tried to retaliate but Switzerland just swept his feet, sending him crashing back down. Björn grabbed onto Switzerland's ankle, but the blond nation grabbed the abandoned chair and brought it down hard on his wrist, then swung at his head again. Not wanting to hurt the man too much, he picked him up albeit with a bit of trouble, and tossed him out of the ring. He looked directly at the crowd, his normal facial expression returning._

"I'll take this." he said as he sauntered over to the practically overflowing bowl of cash. Just then, the whole crowd seemed to band together as a singular force. They glared daggers at him, grabbed chairs, broke bottles, and inched closer. He figured this would happen. He could take on one, maybe two, but not all at once. He'd have to rely on agility and wit rather than strength.

"IT'S THE FUZZ!" a random voice called out.

The crowd broke up in a wild frenzy. People tried to rush out of every exit they could find. Some took to hiding underneath tables. Switzerland, once again, had the unfair advantage. He knew exactly what route the police had to have taken and what protocol they had to go through. Lining this information up with his mental map of the city, he took off. Once above ground, he could see the signature red and blue lights flashing in his peripherals. He held the bowl tightly in one hand and scaled a fire escape with the other. Once atop the building he looked down long enough to see Bastia getting arrested and _Björn fighting off police. Switzerland felt like he had overstayed his welcome and took his leave._

_It was a long trip back home and Switzerland's muscles ached, both from fighting and running. Finally he reached his home and gratefully unlocked the door. It was way early in the morning, so he guessed Liechtenstein was asleep now. He walked quietly with the bowl of money in tow. He set the crumpled bills aside to sort out later and placed his costume back in the secret drawer. He couldn't be bothered to wash the stink of the sweaty crowd or the peeling makeup on him shoulder off of him. Right now, he was ready to sleep and go back to being the gun-toting trigger happy nation he was in the daytime. _


End file.
